My father was born on Valentine’s Day.

February 14, 2017

dry broken roses

I didn’t have anything of his to touch then — there probably aren’t words to describe how whole-bodily I pined for a wool sweater — so, I would hug the roses from his funeral. Several times a day. I knew it was a strange thing to do, but it helped a little, so I did it. When they died too, I wasn’t ready to let them go. Some I did, because there are only so many places you can store dead roses in an East York semi, and the rest, I wrapped in twine and hung to dry. It hasn’t been five months but I was looking at my hanging flowers a while ago and thought.. I think I can compost those now. I don’t have a sweater but I do have a baseball hat. And within the hour, the stems, more shrivelled than when I first bound them, loosened themselves from the twine and answered my thoughts by falling to the floor. Broken, they make the room smell beautiful.

My father was born on Valentine’s Day. Today, these are his roses.

square of carrieCarrie Klassen writes about (and sometimes photographs) things she finds beautiful. She ghost-writes for thoughtful people with something important to say at, teaches writing for small business at, and she shares her own words at Carrie is currently working on a series of personal essays.


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